the last of the starmakers
by vanilluxe
Summary: She leaves behind a thread of stars for him to follow. — Cobb/Ariadne
1. i

**i.**

She wonders if they notice.

She doesn't tell them yet. _(She may never tell them at all and spare herself the pain of their reactions.)_

She doesn't pull away and she doesn't draw close; she stays right where she is. She draws her blueprints and asks for their input and throws pens at Eames when he makes the obligatory snide remark, and everything is okay.

Those are the moments when she lives forever.

* * *

Two months in and she distracts herself by perfecting structures that can exist only in the limitless plane of dreams.

She feigns a lack of inspiration as an excuse for going under so frequently, and they (astonishingly) believe her.

_(It's a white lie, they'll be grateful for this later —)_

She is in the middle of what is likely the beginning of a suburban neighborhood, where the grass is an impossibly vivid emerald and the clear sky stretches out as far as she can see. She slowly walks along the street that links this vast emptiness to the rest of the (fake, meticulously designed) world.

"You weren't lying about the lack of inspiration, I see."

She had a feeling that this was coming.

She turns around and he's there with his hands in his pockets, eyes searching for a sign of something other than green and blue.

"Don't sneak up on me like that," she tells him, sighing and folding her arms across her chest. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

He doesn't answer and walks until he's by her side. They walk in silence for an eternity or two before he stops and looks her straight in the eye.

"What's going on, Ariadne?"

She tenses under his intense, icy gaze, and she knows that she can't tell him — she can't rip his heart to shreds after she had spent so much time and effort in helping to rebuild it.

"First? Tell me why you're here. Wanted to get a look at the deep, dark secrets I don't have?"

He scratches the back of his neck.

"Not exactly," he admits, as if he's breaking the law. "I decided to be an architect again. On the side, that is."

Her eyebrows knit together as she considers his words. "That still doesn't explain why you're in my dream."

"Two is better than one," he says nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders and resuming his stride. "Maybe I can learn something from the best."

She stands there, (almost) mystified, before allowing herself the smallest of smiles.

"In that case, I'm just honored to have a worthy partner." When he raises his eyebrows, she quickly adds, "No sarcasm. Honest."

She catches the satisfied smirk that lingers on his lips for just a moment too long.

* * *

They build together, and she finds herself surprised by the innate talent he has for creation (although he is vastly more conservative, whereas she constructs never-ending stairs merely for her own amusement). She forgets about time — forgets about reality itself.

When the once-bare fields are sufficiently populated with seemingly normal houses (leave it to him to design disturbingly average exteriors and have the interiors blow her away), she takes a deep breath and turns to him.

"I need to tell you something."

"I figured as much."

They're at the end of the road.

"I'm sick, Cobb. And I'm not going to get better."

* * *

"I'll tell them when I'm ready."

Silence.

"You're never going to be ready, Ariadne."

"Thank you for speaking on my behalf, but promise me you won't tell them before I do."

"Fine, but you can't hide this much longer." His voice is breaking and her throat feels tight.

They don't look at each other.

(They're scared of what they might see.)


	2. ii

**a/n:** you guys are seriously the best reviewers ever. thank you all so much for your kind words!

**ii.**

They're starting to notice.

He kept and continues to keep his promise, albeit with an alarmingly degree of reluctance. There's no point in breaking it now, she figures; everyone else is going to piece the puzzle together eventually.

She's about to tear her hair out in frustration (if her hand is even capable of doing that anymore) as she crumples up yet another blueprint and tosses it in the nearly-filled garbage can by her work station. She bites her lip and tries again, tries for the eleventh time that night, as though she can simply _will_ the lines to be straight, as though she can strengthen her hand through sheer willpower.

The lines still resemble an erratic heart monitor reading.

_(This is it, there's no more, she's fading away and no one remembers ghosts—)_

It sinks in, harsher and colder than any kick she's ever experienced.

_I'm dying._

She's vaguely aware of her legs giving out, of Arthur rushing to her side, of the tears threatening to spill over and the way she's crumbling with each faulty breath and heartbeat.

* * *

Six months in and walking becomes a nigh-impossible chore.

"I told them," she informs him quietly when walking along the cliff of a mountain that looks as though it came straight out of _Castrovalva_ ("Escher is rolling in his grave right now," she had told him earlier, which miraculously coaxed a smile out of him).

He glances at her from the corner of his eyes as his expression morphs into something unreadable.

(She's learned that the bitter truth still needs to be administered in small doses when it comes to him.)

"I don't think it's hit them, though. Eames said he suspected that something was wrong, but the gravity hasn't really sunk in yet." She hoists herself up onto a rock and climbs to the top, waiting for him to join her. "But I've been meaning to ask you something."

"And what would that be?" he calls out from beneath her.

"Why did you start building again?"

He stares at his feet for a minute that (seemingly) stretches into hours before working his way up to where she's standing. She walks straight ahead while he stays behind her, and she's almost forgotten asking the question when he answers.

"Mal, in a way." She looks behind her and he tenses up, still looking at the dry earth beneath them. "I thought I was over it, but the void is still there. Maybe it's not the right way to go about it — I don't know anymore — but if I create enough, maybe I can put something in that void's place."

She swallows when his eyes finally meet hers, and in this moment she realizes just how alike they are — two lost causes _(two lost souls) _wandering across the lonely expanses of their own minds, trying to create validation for themselves.

She nods slowly, biting her lip and leaning back and forth on her heels.

"You're — I —" Her voice is trembling for an inexplicable reason, and she doesn't take her eyes off of him as she inhales and exhales (something she always took for granted, she notes darkly). Her voice is stronger yet quieter when she says, "You'll get there, Cobb. You will."

She knows he's moving on in his own way — knows that the fragments of Mal she once thought were destroying him are genuinely an irrevocable part of him now.

_(but there's still that quiet desire, that faint glimmer of hope that will forever be disappointed)_

She smiles at his shocked expression. "Follow me."

They stride past the beige houses that topple over each other in silence, and for the first time in what seems like an eternity, her heart is calm and steady.

They cross a bridge leading downwards and, as she recovers from the sudden shift, she says, "I don't think I'll ever get used to this."

"It's a dream; you've been doing this your whole life. You've just never been as aware of it as you are right now."

She smiles sadly and looks at the ground. _That's not what I meant, Dom._

_

* * *

_

Their eyes flutter open to find that everyone else has already left.

She sits up (which takes a horrific amount of effort) and gets to her feet, catching her balance and breathing a sigh of relief when she doesn't crash into the chair. She checks her watch — 10:32 PM mocks her — and rolls her eyes.

"I should probably give up on trying to have a normal sleep schedule," she groans, turning to face him.

"I'm surprised you haven't already done that."

"Yeah, well, hope springs eternal."

She's going to make it out in one piece — she's sure of it this time. Even if she trips once or twice, even if she stops for a moment or two, it won't matter, because she can do this on her own (she hopes).

_One step, two steps, three steps —_

Her legs go numb and she shuts her eyes tightly, waiting for her face to violently connect with the floor.

She barely registers his hand wrapped around her arm at first, but when she does she realizes that he's practically cutting off her circulation.

His expression is a cross between deathly serious and painfully melancholy as he yanks her to her feet. "This is bad, Ariadne."

"Tell me something I don't know." She tries to sound nothing more than annoyed, but somewhere between her throat and her mouth the words became a choked sob.

They accept the cold finality of it all in this freezing, dimly lit warehouse _(the place she still doesn't hesitate to call home)._

He scoops her up in his arms before she can blink and just like that, they're off.

"Cobb, I'm not some Disney princess, you really don't have to —"

He laughs and it shuts her up, because she can't remember the last time she heard that sound and it's music to her ears.

"You're impossible."

He carries her out into the night, and the sky stretching out above her is the clearest it's been in months, its pitch black canvas punctured by the soft white light of the stars.

"I wish I could rearrange the stars," she murmurs breathlessly, staring up at the vast darkness.

He's silent for a long time.

"You'll find a way, knowing you," is his nearly-inaudible response.

She presses herself against him ever so slightly and clings to his jacket.

(And in this moment, she lives forever.)


	3. iii

**a/n: **once again, thank you for the reviews, everyone. words can't possibly express my gratitude! i had some extreme difficulty writing certain scenes in this chapter, so i apologize in advance for any contrived or badly-written segments. also, regarding ariadne's disease, i'll just say that everything will be clarified in due time! again, thank you all for your lovely words of encouragement — they mean more to me than you can imagine.

**iii.**

It's been nine months and she's still trying to hold on to what she is slowly losing.

He can't stand it — he can't stand watching her struggle to stand, to keep a firm grip on anything, to speak. More than that, however, he cannot under any circumstances stomach the thought of her fighting this alone, so he lets her stay in his home _(knowing that she will live the rest of her life there)_.

She keeps to herself in the guest room, but she'll occasionally find the strength to settle into her wheelchair and spend time with the kids, and every smile he sees on her lips — every weak laugh that escapes her mouth — makes her deterioration increasingly difficult to witness.

Philippa goes up to him one day and asks, "Daddy, when is Ari going to feel better?"

He looks at his daughter, at the innocence in her eyes, and tries to think of a vague answer that isn't a lie.

"I don't know, Philippa," he tells her quietly. "Someday."

Something inside him shatters.

* * *

When he suggests calling her mother to let her know about the current state of affairs, she loses it.

"We haven't talked to each other in more than a year, Cobb! She probably doesn't care if I live or die anyway!" she screams, her fragile voice already fractured with the effort.

"She's your mother, how do you think she's going to feel when—"

"Stop. Just stop. It's none of your goddamn business, okay? Keep your control issues away from me."

He realizes that he truly doesn't know anything about her.

* * *

He tries to stay angry at her, but it's an immensely difficult feat at this point.

He expects her to yell at him for intruding her dreams when she doesn't want to even look at him in reality, but all she says is, "I'm sorry."

"Me too."

* * *

He doesn't entreat her to open up to him. Theirs is a quiet, unassuming relationship, and he isn't about to try and fix something that has its flaws, but certainly isn't broken.

But somewhere between climbing ladders and darting down endless hallways and generally defying all physics, she melts the icy walls surrounding her heart and gently lets him in.

As they pass through her version of Paris _(he lets her break his own rules)_,she tells him about how she was adopted and has a complicated relationship with her parents (searching for her biological parents would double that burden, she says bitterly). She tells him about the structures she thought up when she was a child, about her nine-year-old self's ideal life (building houses on the beach with a husband exactly four inches taller than her and a set of twins).

She tells him about her first kiss.

"It was on New Year's Eve at some party," she says a little breathlessly as she struggles to keep up with his pace. "I was seventeen, drunk, and obviously stupid. I can't even remember what happened, really."

They approach a calmer, less populated part of the city and he can hear her panting.

"Pretty anticlimactic, wouldn't you say?" she asks dryly.

"Mine was with a girl from a blind date. We never saw each other after that night."

"_Ouch."_

He smiles despite himself and looks at her, at the strange way her eyebrows arch and lips twitch, and he's suddenly _(painfully)_ aware of the fact that he can never love her the way he loved (and still loves) Mal.

(He loves her just as much, but differently, and maybe this muted subtlety — the touch of her hand and nothing else — is what he needs.)

* * *

Even the security of the dreamscape doesn't stop him from tensing up when she breaks into a run, and, much to the surprise of absolutely no one, it doesn't take long for her memory of the _real_ sensation of walking to fade away _(just like everything else)_.

His heart drops into his stomach when she starts to stumble every now and then, and he knows what will come next.

She's walking beside him when she trips, and the way he catches her wrist is instinct by now.

"You okay?" he asks, searching her face for anything other than faint annoyance.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks." Her voice is soft and quiet and his chest suddenly aches as his heart races.

He realizes that she's still gripping his hand for dear life.

"Sorry," she mutters. "A habit that carried over to dreams, I guess."

"Don't apologize for nothing, Ariadne."

He doesn't let go, and neither does she.

* * *

She resembles Mal neither in body nor in spirit. Mal's image still follows (but never haunts) him.

With this in mind, it's still a mystery to him how this fiery little architect managed to steal his heart.

_(In all fairness, she's the one who had put its pieces back together.)_

She is a maze in and of herself, and he'd rather lose himself in her than see what's at the end.


	4. iv

**a/n: **thank you again for the reviews, everyone! my appreciation for your encouraging words knows no bounds. there was a slight delay in writing this chapter, as a few real life conundrums reared their head over the course of these past few days. (let me tell you, the life of a fifteen-year-old is overflowing with serious business, but oh lord i'm rambling.) i veered off the established path for a chapter, but i still hope you all enjoy, my loves!

_**iv.**_

It would be unfair to her if he told her at this point, he guesses.

Arthur is not a stupid man. He knows the significance of their time in the dreamscape together, of the _(strangely unfamiliar) _wave of emotion in Cobb's eyes when she finally begins to accept his assistance.

_(He knows, but he'll concede that he cannot and will never understand.)_

It's been twelve months.

One year since the countdown began (not just for Ariadne — for all of them).

* * *

She only speaks in hushed tones — her explanation is that it's the only way for her to maintain a degree of control over the clarity of her voice.

It pains him to hear that, to know that the one person in their group who never failed to take full responsibility for themselves must surrender their control to the powers that be. She didn't go down without a fight.

_(he shudders when he realizes that he has already begun to think of her in the past tense, as if the quiet young woman beside him is a different person entirely.)_

_

* * *

_

"Arthur, can I ask you something?"

"I know what you're thinking, and the answer is yes—"

She runs over his foot without a second thought.

"Okay, okay. Joking aside, what is it?"

They're isolated from the rest of the group _(he can faintly hear Eames trying to make a pass at Yusuf, and he is well beyond the point of being surprised)_, and she's sitting in front of him, fidgeting lazily — it occurs to him that she can't fidget any other way — while he's sitting here, knowing that her next question is going to destroy him. It would be ironic if she didn't manage to rebuild him every damn time.

(He wonders when exactly this became so hard, when he became so angry and bitter because why her? why her? why do the good die young?)

"Am I a burden?"

Her expression is tranquil, but he can see the undercurrent of raw desperation hiding in her features, and he just wants to reach out and tell her that he—

"If by burden you mean 'shining beacon of calmness amongst five high-strung men,' then yes, I would have to say you are."

She smiles — laughs, even (he deserves a medal for this, he swears) — and while her eyes are shining, his heart is crumbling.

* * *

Eames is a logical (if light-hearted) man. He is firmly grounded to reality — far more than his comrades, he would say — and he is capable of accepting whatever comes his way.

He never realized that this would become such a profound issue. He never — he never even once _entertained_ the idea of one of them dying, let alone slowly and in a quiet manner that no one could prevent.

Perhaps he's already surrendered his identity as a whole to this odd, makeshift family; there are five equal parts of his very being, and one of them is slowly fading away.

Ariadne. Deteriorating. Dying. Dead.

One of these does not belong, he grimly notes.

* * *

He deals with it much more smoothly than Arthur, and although he's faintly aware of the affairs transpiring between her and Cobb, he honestly cannot (accurately) read the man to save his life.

He treats her the same, as though nothing has changed. He continues to mock and tease her, because he knows better than anyone that this is the normalcy she craves.

_(He sees the stars in her eyes and oh, how he knows. How he knows.)_

"Thank you."

Her voice is firm and steady, but he doesn't look up from his newspaper.

"For what, love? I haven't done you any particular favors now, have I?"

She rolls her eyes and offers a smug grin. "You know."

"I'm afraid I don't. Care to spell it out for me, Ari?"

She wheels away, but not before saying, "If I could throw a pen at you right now, Eames, I would. I really would."

He looks up, and in this moment it dawns on him: there's not much time left before he will never see that sweet smile nor hear that confident voice ever again.

* * *

Yusuf is not an emotional man. He maintains (or tries to maintain) a healthy detachment from this band of thieves, but they somehow draw him in every time.

Even so, he thinks this may be what causes him to slip away for good.

He doesn't know why, but he remembers the day, the hour, the minute, the second Ariadne had sat them down and quietly informed them.

ALS, she said. First her legs would go, then her arms and hands, her voice, her throat, before everything completely shut down. It didn't strike young people often, but she was one of the unlucky ones, she supposed.

Two years. They had given her two years.

For all his emotional detachment, Yusuf knows that he's going to miss her. He's going to miss her playful remarks about the illicit nature of his "activities" (and said remarks were never as subtle as she seemed to think they were). He'll miss her words of encouragement and respect, even when she confessed that she did not understand a sliver of chemistry. He's going to miss her silently powerful dedication to perfecting every detail of every maze. He's going to miss her miraculous ability to detect when the team needs coffee and needs it _now_.

_(things fall apart; the center cannot hold.)_

_

* * *

_

"Hey, Yusuf? Can you do me a favor?"

He looks up from his work station to see her there, looking highly uncomfortable and highly pitiable.

"Yes?"

"Um. Can you — can you make some coffee? I'm withering away from the lack of caffeine here."

Her request catches him off guard; not only is it such a simple task, but she is utterly ashamed of asking for help. It's (more than) mildly depressing, and what can he do but oblige?

"My pleasure, Ariadne."

The relief on her face is worth it, he thinks.

* * *

He'll miss her — he knows that. They've formed a friendship alongside their professional relationship.

But she's a strong woman, and when he sees the fire in her eyes that was present from day one still burning, he knows that she will not submit too early, but she will never fight a fruitless battle.

* * *

Underneath the necessary façade that the business world requires, Saito is a sympathetic man.

He was (and still is, to an extent) determined to make this ailment of Ariadne's a blip in her past. He turned the world upside down and shook it to find the finest specialists and the most advanced doctors, but the results were the same each and every time.

There are ways to slow her condition, but she is ultimately condemned to a fate she does not deserve.

_(And as much as he would like to, he cannot twist or even touch the divine threads of fate.)_

_

* * *

_

"I appreciate it, but you don't have to do this, Mr. Sai—"

He holds up a hand.

"Please, Miss Ariadne. The costs are mere pocket change. It is certainly worth it, I assure you."

She's touched, and he knows that he has done what he can.

_(Money cannot buy a life.)_

She wheels herself away, and he notes her grace throughout this ordeal — the way her spirit never wavers — and for a fleeting moment, he understands why the heavens want her.


	5. v

**a/n: **guys. _guys._ it probably makes me sound like such a sap, but your reviews seriously make me blush and even tear up. i'm just continually amazed and thankful for all of your support. this chapter seriously wasn't supposed to happen, but it did. it's incredibly short and tacky, i'm afraid;; i hope you all enjoy anyway!

**v.**

It's going to end soon.

She is not the type of girl to pray for miracles. She doesn't panic, doesn't cry or have outbursts of rage — she just lives (to the best of her ability). Wasting her energy on pointless emotions isn't going to change anything, she reasons.

_(she gently exempts love from that group of pointless feelings.)_

It's been fifteen month and the walls are closing in around her (—around _them_).

* * *

She tries to understand this — whatever it is that they've formed. It's love, but it's not, and yet it feels like everything she imagined love would be.

She's slowly learning that this is not something that is meant to be understood — that understanding it is feeling it, and nothing more.

_(So simple, so wonderful, so ethereal. So debilitating. So destructive.)_

_

* * *

_

"This isn't going to work—"

"Maybe it would if you'd, I don't know, _bend down _a little. Do you know how hard it is to try and keep your balance when you're standing on your toes?"

He hesitates.

She takes matters into her own hands and grabs the collar of his shirt, pulls him down, and kisses him.

It's quick, simple and no fireworks go off _(and yet they do)_, but his lips are soft and experienced against hers as they allow her to forget that anything outside of this moment exists.

_(and for the first time in years, she's happy, she is truly and stupidly happy—)_

When they break apart, his face is flushed and he looks somewhere between satisfied and anxious. His expression is asking her _is this really okay?_; after all this time of knowing him, she still doesn't know if he wants to hear a lie or the truth.

"Sometimes I wonder just what exactly goes through your mind at times like these," she tells him blankly.

She loves him, but not his baggage, and even though she can feel his gaze linger on her as she walks away, he doesn't say anything.

_(His silence always speaks louder than words.)_

_

* * *

_

The first time _he_ kisses her, it's nothing more than an apology.

She surprises herself by being content with that.

* * *

"Aren't you afraid?"

She looks at him incredulously, eyebrows raised. "Why would I be afraid?"

"You're dying, Ariadne. Who _wouldn't _be afraid?"

(He's as subtle as ever, of course.)

She purses her lips and forces herself to maintain eye contact. "The only people afraid of dying are the people who have regrets."

He looks away first.

* * *

She was confused for a while, she'll admit. She wondered (and still wonders) if she can even claim to know what love is, but now she's never been more certain of anything — she knows him, she understands him (despite his claims to the contrary), she _loves him _for all his faults and fears, his insecurities and mistakes.

_("do you know what it is to be a lover? to be half of a whole?")_

No, she doesn't — but it's the closest she'll ever be to knowing.

* * *

She doesn't know when she should say it anymore. She doesn't know if she should ever say it.

_("I think I lo—"_

"_Stop. Not yet, Ariadne. Not yet.")_

All she has is the hope that someday, he won't say those words — that someday, he'll be ready.

* * *

The shore is the only place that forces her to become acutely aware of the gulf in their experiences; it's the only place where she remembers the countless lives he has lived and how she isn't going to make it through one.

They walk and walk and walk towards God knows what.

"Sometimes I wonder if this all just…fell into place because of convenience." She doesn't even dare to look at him when she says, "And sometimes I wonder if it all fell into place at all."

"What are you trying to say, Ariadne?" he asks, and his voice is so brutally sharp that she almost flinches. _(It's always almost.)_

"I'm just talking to myself," she replies quietly. _It's all I ever do now._

_

* * *

_

When he vaguely suggests they go further and further, she yanks him down by the collar and leans in so close that she can feel his breath grazing her lips.

"Get it through your head, Cobb. _I'm not her._ I will never _be_ her. You never fucking learn from your mistakes, do you?"

* * *

He subtly slips into her dreams most of the time.

This is not one of those times.

He forces his way in, even when the projections are closing in on him much more quickly, and roughly grabs her shoulders.

"Listen to me."

"Why should I?"

"Because you want to."

"Point taken."

He swallows and the edges of his voice are softer when he says, "You were never a replacement. Never. I — I don't want to keep trying to replicate her."

"Then why are we like this now, Cobb? What are you trying to do?"

He lets her go and falls silent for a while.

"That's the thing," he tells her softly. "I'm not trying to do anything."

She wants to cry — out of relief, out of happiness, she doesn't know anymore.

A stab of fear strikes her when she realizes that he may never let her tell him, and the clock will always move forward at a speed they will never adjust to.

_(she'll die in her own maze.)_


	6. vi

**a/n: **FILLER CHAPTER AHOY. i went on vacation for a week and my will to write was shot for a few days afterwards. however! next chapter will be the last, so this is sort of building up towards that. again, i honestly cannot thank you all enough for your kind reviews. i'll respond to each of you individually once the fic wraps up, of course. enough of my rambling, however~

**vi.**

He wonders when their bond became so turbulent — when she began to swing back and forth between pushing him away and clinging to him for dear life.

He can't read her mind, even when he's inside of it.

* * *

It's been eighteen months and she can't move her arms and legs — can't speak. Swallowing anything is a bitter battle.

"Isn't that everyone's biggest fear?" she asks him as they make their way through a _(vaguely, hauntingly familiar)_ pavilion. The sunlight clashes with the shadows and cast an unearthly glow about her when he looks behind as she struggles to keep up, legs shaking and breath escaping her lips in short puffs. "I mean, just — just slowly fading away? Existing, but not living? I can't stand it, Cobb. I feel like I'm a ghost floating around in purgatory."

He closes his eyes, as if that's what will make this all go away; she can't avoid talking about the inevitable at this point, but no matter how much his rational mind accepts it as fact, as the _truth_, the visceral part of him — the part that he just cannot subdue — is screaming in protest.

"Listen," she says softly, gripping his forearm, and he unconsciously relaxes in her grasp _(these hands are made to build, not destroy)_."Don't let this break you. Don't become even more of a lost cause than you already are."

Her tone is lighthearted, but there's always sour truth in jest.

* * *

"Don't you think you're making a mistake?"

Arthur has always been his voice of reason — of course, he only insists on adopting this role in situations that don't adhere to reason.

It's a noble effort, he'll admit.

"And don't you think you're being unfair if you don't know the situation?" he asks, his tone caught somewhere between teasing and chillingly serious.

"Cobb, to anyone with even a basic understanding of whatever's going on between you two, it looks like you want to relive that kind of misery," Arthur tells him, actively attempting to keep his voice under control despite them being the only ones in the warehouse. "Knowing you — hell, knowing her — the both of you jumped off the deep end a long time ago."

There's a mixture of concern and frustration _(and is that jealousy?) _in his expression, and he's so young; he just doesn't _(can't) _understand this.

"Do you know what the alternative would be?" he asks him quietly, voice free of malice.

Arthur tenses, fists clenching in his pockets. He has a dry, acrid response festering beneath his lips, but he knows better than to respond.

"She would just wither away, alone and depressed, and don't even try to tell me that you or anyone else would stay by her side through something like that." He pauses, gauging Arthur's uneasy expression before continuing. "The only reason this works is because I understand, Arthur. I know what I'm getting into. Besides, she's grounded enough for the both of us."

Had this conversation occurred a few months ago, he would have felt frigid apprehension grip him and he would not have been capable of offering a coherent explanation for this — whatever it is _(he doesn't think he'll ever quite figure out exactly what this quiet little affair is all about)_.

But the explanation comes naturally, and more importantly — he actually believes it.

* * *

Maybe he's wrong, though; maybe she's not grounded. He sees it in the way her eyes go vacant, in the way she seems to drift away when her presence was once so strong.

She's floating away, moving deeper and deeper into the maze of her own mind, and he isn't sure if there's any point in following her — in trying to save her when she's lost either way.

* * *

It's not supposed to be this way, he thinks.

Theseus was the one who left Ariadne. Not the other way around.

* * *

She turns to him, shakes her head ever so slightly, and tells him, "You're more worried about this whole thing than I am, Cobb. And I don't think it's a walk in the park either."

He somehow knew that she was going to tell him something like that one of these _(few remaining) _days, and he wants to be able to explain it to her, to explain it in a way that's so frigid and technical that it numbs the pain. And yet, he knows that she's right; he's willing to bet that this is a heavier burden on his soul than hers, because she's young and her spirit is resilient and unwavering, whereas he — in all his oldness and weariness and brokenness — cannot shoulder that burden.

"It's hard for you to just let things run their course, isn't it?" she teases, taking his hand in hers. "Always have to be the one fixing things."

"Now, that's not fair. I could say the same exact thing for you."

Of course, the only people they can't fix are themselves.

"Just let things run their course. If this is the way everything was meant to be, we can't really go about doing much to stop it, right?"

And that's what he's scared of the most.

* * *

He knows that she desperately wants to tell him all the things he wants _(but can't) _hear.

This is just one giant lose-lose situation, he thinks as he steals a glance at her sleeping form.

He wonders if she dreams about him of her own accord.

(But he'll never really know, he guesses.)


	7. vii

**a/n:** sitting down to write the final chapter for this story feels incredibly surreal, to be honest. after my last update, i became busy with my junior year of high school, and now i'm about to graduate from high school altogether. my life has changed quite a bit! i'm afraid i'll get emotional if i think too much about it, oops. but, as i promised a thousand years ago, this is the seventh and final chapter. as time has passed, i'm certain my writing style has changed (i'm rather rusty these days, unfortunately), so please forgive me. i simply cannot thank you all enough for your endless encouragement and kind words—i'm certainly not deserving of them, but i cherish them nonetheless. thank you for sticking with me and this story.

also, a few production notes, if you can call them that. the title of this story was taken from the title of a Courage the Cowardly Dog episode. it was incredibly touching and, strangely enough, a welcome departure from the show's usual formula (not that i don't love it regardless, of course). i also listened to the episode's theme quite a bit for some inspiration simply because it's so gorgeous. anyway, there ends my input. enjoy!

**vii.**

The months slowly began to slip away from them—mere sand between their fingers, water spilling from a cup.

Twenty-two months, and the sun is setting.

* * *

She physically cannot function on her own in any respect, and he just can't watch.

He knows she wouldn't want to die in hospice, so he hires a nurse to perform the most mundane activities. She's come to accept it by now. This way, at least, they won't have to give up their shared dreaming.

He sleeps in a chair in her room most of the time. The children, sharp as they are, have deduced what type of situation is occuring before them and lets the adults keep to themselves.

Fate gave him a cruel hand.

* * *

Not having much else to do, she sleeps most of time. If she thinks about it, it's morbidly humorous—it's almost as if she's preparing for the next life.

He doesn't intrude much these days. She understands why he avoids her dreams more than he does.

Night has descended upon the house, and she's certain that he and the kids are sleeping. She's never asleep during these strange hours. Her mind is always teeming, flooded with thoughts, ideas, images, pictures, hopes, desires, hatreds, loves—everything she can't have.

She stares intently at the ceiling, as if God will display images of the future to her, as if it'll combust and burn away to nothing if she glares long enough.

It's hard not to wish that upon everything these days.

* * *

In his heart, he knows that this is the last time they will ever dream together.

They sit on their knees on a vast shore, taking in the fading light and the soft sounds of the waves rolling along the coast. They have not said anything to each other—they don't need to anymore.

She takes quick, delicate breaths—perhaps the last she'll ever take in this life.

"Let me say it."

The plea freezes in the cold ocean air and resounds in his mind.

He can't let her say it. (And yet, he wants to, _needs_ to.)

He can't accept it. (And yet, if he does not, they will both fall apart.)

He can't let her die. (And yet, it's already been written into the grand blueprint of life and of lives, the stars and the fragile balance of the universe.)

She manages a bittersweet smile as she weakly takes his hand, giving it the softest of squeezes. He's suddenly aware of the fact that he's trembling violently. The ocean breeze is calming, foreboding, and the waves begin to crash down harder, serving as warnings for what is to come.

A strange silence ensues, but she doesn't appear to be uncomfortable with it. They bask in the sunset's soft glow.

They look off into the distance, and he notices that the waves—much larger and rougher by now—keep rolling in, never ceasing.

"Come with me," she says breathlessly, somehow summoning the strength to stand up without support.

He follows silently—apprehensively—while studying her. He can't decipher her expression, but her stride is capable and confident. She walks toward the ocean, toward the waves, ready to face it all.

"You know…" she says. "I hope you don't feel resentful or hopeless or something."

Her voice is neutral, a façade, a mask to hide behind while she falls apart. He hears her wish—_sees_ it. Her lips tremble and her knees shake, a disjointed spirit in a failing body. She never wanted anything but to create; this he knows. He can't imagine how devastating it would be to her if all she left behind was destruction. _His_ destruction.

They walk until their feet are immersed in the frigid water. The waves grow stronger every minute and still crash down angrily upon the shore, but they are safe for now.

(For now. It's always "for now.")

"Well? Are you going to say anything, Dom?"

What good are words in the face of looming death? Yet, he indulges her.

"I'll be fine. I promise."

She quirks an eyebrow doubtfully and looks at him. He looks back, if only because he must etch her face into his memory. He must not forget, he cannot forget—

(her.)

"I really hope so. You don't have the best track record for being fine."

"I swear." His voice strong with conviction. He pauses, trying to collect his words before she responds.

He looks off into the distance, into the great sunset bathing them in orange light. His heart pounds in his chest—all the words he stowed away must be said.

"You made me feel real again," he confesses shakily. "I can't lie. I…never thought I would be the same after everything that happened. I'm still not the same, actually. But I felt like I was in purgatory. Just drifting through life, with no real purpose, no real _raison d'etre_. Working with Arthur and you and Eames on a regular basis wasn't bad, don't get me wrong. That inexplicable _something_ just wasn't there, though."

Her eyes are full of tears that threaten to spill over. She grips his hand with both of hers. "Dom, I—"

He shakes his head.

"I started building again so that I could fill the void, but I never thought it would. I never thought I would ever feel like a whole person again. But then…_we_ started building together. I was afraid, Ariadne. That feeling became so overwhelming. I knew what would happen, but—"

"But we didn't really have any other choice, did we?" she murmurs, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

He is silent. They speak of this as though it was a mistake.

(_Was it? He can never tell._)

"Thank you," he whispers breathlessly, his brow creasing in concern as he watches the ferocious waves crash down around them.

She's quiet for a time before saying, "No, thank _you_. For not leaving."

"Who would I be if I left? I'd like to think I have _some_ goodness left in me, Ariadne."

She laughs, leaning her head against his arm. They are quiet, with only the sound of the wind and the waves sweeping through the air.

He will always remember this. The soft sand, the cold water, the warm light—her beautiful eyes. Her smile.

His heart stops, however, as he sees a wave, larger than any of its predecessors, building up in the distance, growing taller and taller with each second. He isn't ready, not prepared in the least. He holds his breath and hazards a glance down at Ariadne's calm face.

His eyes feel so dry. Must he say goodbye so soon?

"Can I say it?" Her voice is nearly inaudible—it is a shaky whisper, a plea.

The wave is so tall, so much taller than them—it will consume them.

He doesn't know what to tell her. Shall he make a sacrifice and let her soul rest easy, or should he spare himself the unimaginable pain that will come with the words? He has a feeling that the battle in his heart simply will not end.

He says nothing and lets her decide.

"I love you."

The words are simple; she says them plainly, factually, and that convinces him more than anything else that they are true.

It's a cliché, it's a bad romantic tragedy, it's the stuff of terrible Harlequin novels. He only wishes it was kept to such domains.

The wave draws ever nearer, and it will overtake them in a matter of seconds. They turn to each other, their expressions a mix of paradoxical panic and calm. Her eyes watch him expectantly.

His body shakes. He is ready.

The rush of wind from the wave whips her hair around violently.

She holds his hands so lovingly, and he refuses to believe that this will ever end.

He inhales—

_it's coming_

—and finally accepts the hand he has been dealt.

"I love you too."

Against himself, against everything, he smiles. She returns the gesture.

"Thank you for building with me. We…really created something beautiful, didn't we? Anyway. We'll meet again someday. You can't get rid of me for long."

He stares at his feet.

"It's okay, Dom. It'll be okay…"

The wave crashes down cruelly upon them—

_("…And we drown.")_

* * *

He opens his eyes slowly, squinting in the morning light.

He sits up in the chair, casually rubbing his neck before remembering everything that just transpired. Jumping to his feet, he saunters over to her, taking in her still body. Her features are calm, the calmest he has seen in years.

And she is gone.

The suffocating silence of the room is too much for him to bear, but he is paralyzed by the sight of her lifeless self.

He does not cry. He does not breathe, does not dare to move.

Something strange overtakes him as he grips her still-warm hand. His soul is peaceful, as peaceful as her face.

He is alone once again, but he does not feel alone. Not in the least.

He stares, stares endlessly, and says, "Thank you…for showing me who I am."

He falls to his knees.

* * *

The funeral is a small, private affair. A handful of acquaintances come, but judging by the atmosphere, it is apparent that the team was her true family.

His mind is somewhere else. The sky is clear and beautiful, and the sun beats down pleasantly upon them all. He knows his team all too well—they're all keeping their grief to themselves.

He doesn't know what will become of them.

After the event has died down, he walks through the graveyard stares at the blossoming trees and the lush grass surrounding him.

A gust of wind passes by, and he sighs.

He is fine.


End file.
